


The Sun, Chasing the Moon

by devovitsuasartes



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jealousy, M/M, Phone Sex, Suicide Attempt, Transphobia, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovitsuasartes/pseuds/devovitsuasartes
Summary: Ian waits for Mickey.





	1. One Year

It’s Mickey’s turn to avoid eye contact, this time around. His gaze darts around the room as he saunters slowly over to the booth and sits down, and when he picks up the phone on his side he just holds it loosely to his ear and doesn’t say anything. His hair is long - longer than Ian’s ever seen it before - and he looks tired and twitchy.

Ian bites his lip, presses the phone tight to his ear, and says, “Hey.”

Mickey glances up at him briefly, then looks away again. “Svetlana send you?” he asks, his voice thin and echoey in Ian’s ear.

“No,” Ian replies. “I wanted to see you.”

Mickey bares his teeth. It can’t really be called a smile, and the noise he makes can’t really be called a laugh. “Well I’ve fuckin’ been here, man,” he says. “You lose the address or something?”

Yeah, Ian deserves that. He’s not here to apologize to Mickey, but he’s also not here to lie to him. “I was trying to move on,” he explains bluntly. “I wanted to try and leave everything in the past. I haven’t even really seen Yevgeny much, or Svetlana.”

“Yeah, well…” Mickey scratches his eyebrow with a dirty thumbnail. “That makes two of us. Bitch sent me the divorce papers, and that’s the last I heard from her.”

“She’s doing good.”

“Like I give a shit.”

That puts a halt to the conversation for a little while. Mickey scratches at the cheap Formica surface of the booth, and Ian listens to the distorted sounds of his breathing down the phone, staring at Mickey’s tattooed knuckles and his chewed-down fingernails. Ian wants so desperately to say _I miss you_ , but there’s other stuff he has to say first.

“I got a boyfriend,” Ian confesses, and sees the muscles in Mickey’s face tighten. “ _Had_ a boyfriend,” he corrects quickly. “We just broke up.”

Mickey’s mouth twists bitterly. “You want a fuckin’ shoulder to cry on? Gonna be kind of difficult with this glass in the way.”

“No, I…” Shit. He really should have rehearsed this better. “He cheated on me. With a woman. He didn’t even think it counted as cheating, but I couldn’t stay with him after that.”

There’s no response from the other side of the glass. Mickey is looking away, and Ian realizes he’s looking at the clock - probably counting down the seconds until visitation time is over.

“He seemed like exactly what I needed,” Ian continues doggedly. “Steady job, steady life. He’s a fireman, and an artist. He helped me get this job as an EMT, and he brought me as a date to his cousin’s wedding, and he was… sweet. Real sweet.”

“You gonna make me fuckin’ sit here and listen to this?” Mickey snaps, finally looking up, his knuckles white where his fingers are curled aggressively around the phone. He looks fucking angry, and Ian doesn’t blame him.

“Please, I’m going somewhere with this, just… hear me out.” Ian takes a deep breath, licks his lips, then carries on talking. “He was perfect, you know? On paper. But he… he still cheated on me, like it was no big deal. And I thought, shit, what’s the fucking point? Why am I out chasing this perfect fucking textbook healthy relationship if this is where it ends up? And then…” Ian strokes his thumb over the cheap plastic of the handset, and wishes it was Mickey’s hand that he was holding. “Then I thought about you.”

“Aw, that’s real fuckin’ sweet of you, Gallagher,” Mickey retorts sharply, that ugly expression still on his face. “I always dreamed of being your fuckin’ rebound guy. You done?”

“I miss you, Mickey,” Ian says in a rush, suddenly terrified that Mickey will hang up on him. “I think I was missing you that whole time. I just didn’t want to. I was trying to distract myself from it but I miss you so fucking much.”

Mickey is shaking his head, his expression contorted, like he’s trying to resist what Ian is saying. Like he wants to believe it, but isn’t willing to lay himself bare again. “Fuck you, Gallagher,” he spits down the phone, tilting his face towards it, his lips close to the mouthpiece. “You expect me to believe that? You coulda come and visited me any time, _any_ fucking time…”

“I’m visiting you now, aren’t I?”

“It’s been a fuckin’ year! You don’t get fuckin’ brownie points for visiting me after a year!”

The guard on Mickey’s side of the glass unfolds his arms and glares at him. Mickey throws him a sarcastic smile, but lowers his voice before speaking again.

“You got no idea, Gallagher,” he says, and suddenly he looks exhausted. “This place ain’t like juvie. I got shit under control but it’s a fuckin’ fight, every single day.” He glances sidelong at the fat guard, who has already lost interest. “I’m working on busting out of here,” Mickey says, his voice crackling down the line.

Ian sits up a little straighter at that, stares at Mickey to try and figure out if he’s serious. He looks pretty serious. “How?”

“Let’s just say I got a plan.”

“And what’ll you do if you get out?”

Mickey regards him suspiciously through the glass. “Why. You gonna narc on me?”

“Jesus, Mick, _no._ ” That stings - it really stings. Maybe Ian deserves it, but he can’t believe that Mickey really thinks he would snitch. His mind is racing. If Mickey manages to break out, he’ll have to go on the run - maybe even flee the country. And if he tries to break out and fails, his sentence will definitely get extended. Both options pretty much suck. “Look, don’t try and break out. Please.”

“Nothing keeping me here.” It sounds like a challenge, and Ian rises to meet it without hesitation.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Mickey lets out another not-quite-laugh. It’s a sound that seems to hurt him on the way out. “Yeah, heard that one before.”

“I mean it this time, Mick. I didn’t then, but I mean it now. I’ll wait. I’ll wait fifteen years, if I have to. I can’t promise I’m gonna live like a monk, but I’ll fucking wait for you. Mickey.” Ian clenches his jaw, then reaches up and presses his fingers against the glass, wishing like hell that he could just reach through and grab Mickey and pull him out of this place - take him home, where he belongs. ”And I’ll keep visiting, every week.”

Mickey looks down at where Ian’s fingertips are flattened against the partition. He doesn’t reach out in kind, but he doesn’t tell Ian to take his hand off the glass either. He just stares for a while, his eyelids hooded, and his expression slack with weariness.

“I guess we’ll see, huh?” he says.

A harsh buzzing noise signals the end of visitation time. Mickey hangs up abruptly, settles his face into a casually mean expression, and walks away without saying goodbye. Ian watches him go, with the phone still pressed to his ear. He takes his hand off the glass, leaving behind fogged-up fingerprints that fade too quickly.


	2. One Year, Six Months

“An inmate is attempting to ca-”

Ian presses 1 immediately to let the call through - an old habit at this point. There’s a soft click, and then the soft sound of breathing, coupled with a hum of background noise. A fond smile creases Ian’s face, unbidden, and he lets the affection bleed into his voice as he says, “Hey, Mick.”

“What’s up, Gallagher?” His voice sounds so distant, and the connection isn’t great, but Ian could swear it sounds like Mickey is smiling a little too.

“Not much. Just got off work, now I got some reading to do.”

There’s a soft chuckle down the line. “Oh yeah, how’s fuckin’ high school?”

Ian rolls his eyes, even though Mickey can’t see it. He’s taking night classes to earn his GED, which he needs before he can enroll at the fire academy to train as a full firefighter. Working a full-time job and studying part-time is kind of exhausting, but that’s what it’s going to take. “It’s good. Got a B on my last geometry test, so…” He lets the sentence trail off, realizing how lame it sounds.

Mickey sounds amused, though. “Good boy,” he drawls, and even down the crappy phone line Ian can hear the way Mickey curls his tongue around the words lasciviously. He smiles, and lies back on his bed, staring up at the old posters on the ceiling.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Ian says. He always says it, and maybe it’s redundant at this point, but he wants to make sure that Mickey knows. “You get your commissary money?”

“Yeah. They just started stocking Payday bars again, so I pretty much cleaned ‘em out.” There’s a pause, then Mickey asks abruptly, “You still fucking the tranny?”

The warm feeling in Ian’s chest dissipates a little. “Don’t call him that,” he snaps, making sure Mickey can hear how dead fucking serious he is. “His name’s Trevor. You want to ask me about him, you use his name.”

“Whoops.” Mickey’s voice turns nasty as well. “Sorry, didn’t mean to insult your boyfriend.”

Ian closes his eyes, forces himself to stay calm. “You’re my boyfriend, Mick,” he says, as patiently as he can manage. “You know that. I told you, Trevor’s just a friend.”

“You mean a fuck-buddy.”

“Sure,” Ian confirms, letting his irritation bleed into his voice. “How’s Damon, by the way?”

He hears Mickey blow out a long, irritated breath that crackles harshly down the phone line. “Alright, Gallagher, point fuckin’ made.”

The fight goes out of him then. Ian had to up his dose of downers recently, and the fatigue has been hitting him hard. He pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches up his face.

“Ian?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Don’t go quiet on me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Mickey might have started the fight, but Ian isn’t going to punish him for it. Whether he likes it or not, this is not a balanced relationship. Ian has all the power here, and he has to constantly resist the temptation to give Mickey the silent treatment when they fight. There’s just no way not to make that come across like a threat. “How are things in there? You keeping your head down?”

“You know me,” Mickey replies, which isn’t all that comforting.

“I’m serious, Mick.”

“Look, I need advice about how to handle life in the slammer, you ain’t exactly my go-to expert. Just relax, Gallagher, I got shit under control.”

Ian is still worried, but he drops the subject. “You get the pictures I sent you?”

“Yeah. Don’t know why you think I need the constant updates on the ankle-biter, but I’ve been spending plenty of time with your photo.” Mickey’s voice is low and thick, the hint of a smirk behind it. “You look good in uniform, Gallagher.”

“Look better out of it.” Ian scratches his stomach lazily, feeling the firm layer of muscle there. “I’ve been working out.”

“Mmm. I’d like to see.”

“Maybe I’ll send another picture.”

“Yeah?” Mickey sounds tempted, but he hesitates. “Those assholes go through all my mail, though. They’d see it before I would.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I fuckin’ do. Just…” Mickey blows out a frustrated breath that comes through as a rush of static. “Just talk to me a little. Give me something to work with.”

Ian smiles slowly. He slides his hand down, in between his jeans and his underwear, and curls his fingers over his soft cock, rubbing it a little, feeling it start to firm up under the attention. “Remember the baseball field?”

“Yeah.” Mickey is obviously trying to keep his voice steady - no doubt surrounded by fellow inmates. That’s fine; Ian can do the talking.

“That summer was so fucking hot,” he continues, still slowly groping himself, letting his eyes drift closed. “I loved it, ‘cause you cut the sleeves off all your shirts. You got the best fuckin’ arms, Mick.”

“Been working out a lot in here,” Mickey says, his voice husky but his tone still carefully conversational. “I can bench press 220 now.”

“Damn.” Ian can picture it. Mickey always wears that stupid orange jumpsuit during visitation, but his muscular forearms make it easy to imagine what’s above them - the firm belly of Mickey’s biceps, and the softer curve of his triceps behind them. Ian unbuttons and unzips his jeans, brings his hand up to his mouth so he can wet his palm with his tongue, then slides it inside his boxers.

“Gallagher,” Mickey growls. “Talk.”

“Shit, sorry, ah…” Ian starts to stroke himself, slowly, making sure that Mickey can hear his breath picking up. “Baseball field, right. You looked so fucking good. I was crazy about you, back then, and I didn’t even really know if you liked me, so I got so fuckin’ excited when you came out to the field with me. Pretended it was a real date, talked to you about school and shit…”

“Yeah, yeah, get to the good part,” Mickey says, not bothering to hide his impatience.

Ian laughs breathlessly. “Sorry. Yeah, that time was fuckin’ great. I loved how you were always ready to go. Just dropped your pants and bent over and I could just…” He moans a little at the memory. “Just push right in. You got yourself ready before, right? You always got yourself ready, so we could get right to fucking. Jesus, Mick, you were so fucking tight.”

Mickey isn’t saying anything now. He’s just breathing down the phone, deep and even, through his nose. Ian pauses to grab a couple of squirts of lube, and to push his boxers down. He starts jerking himself noisily, trying to make sure Mickey can hear the slick, filthy, rhythmic slide of skin-on-skin.

“You were always good at keeping quiet,” Ian continues, his voice shaky now. “I loved it. I loved how quiet you were. It meant I knew you were never faking it. Every time I managed to fuck some noise out of you, I knew it was real. Oh, _fuck_ , Mickey…”

Nothing but breathing down the phone, but knowing that Mickey doesn’t trust himself to talk just gets Ian even hotter. He tries to concentrate on keeping his monologue going.

“I… that was one of the times where I came right after you, real fast. I fucked you so hard, Mick, and you came and you made this little fuckin’ sound and I couldn’t fuckin’ stop myself, I just fucked in deep and I… I…”

He’s right on the edge now. He can feel it, pulling his balls up tight against his body, ready to shoot.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

“Fuck!” Mickey explodes furiously, his frustration palpable even down the phone. “I’m outta fuckin’ minutes. Shit, Ian, just…”

“Mick,” Ian chokes out, his fist flying over his cock, his hips lifting off the bed. “I’m… I’m…” He drops his phone onto the pillow and reaches up with his newly freed hand to brace against the wall as he blows his load, his other hand stilling in a tight grip around the base of his cock as come shoots up his belly, soaking his shirt. The climax wrings him out, curls his body up until his stomach aches and his calf muscles are cramping, and leaves him limp and red-faced when it’s done with him.

Panting hot air through a dry mouth, Ian scrabbles clumsily for his phone and lifts it to his ear. The indifferent monotony of a dial tone is all that greets him. He doesn’t know how much Mickey heard. He hopes it was enough.

Ian wipes a hand down his face shakily. He feels unsatisfied, somehow. Reliving memories of his old trysts with Mickey has left him desperate for the feel of Mickey’s skin, and the softness of his hair, and the way he smells. Suddenly, Ian is profoundly lonely, aching for human contact.

But Mickey is behind bars, and he’s not getting out any time soon. So Ian cleans himself up, and then he calls Trevor.


	3. Two Years, Four Months

**Ian,**

**I don’t need your fucking lectures about what I do to get by in here, so feel fucking free to edit that shit out of your next letter. I know I fucked up. I’m the one who ended up in the SHU for a week. You think I wanted that shit? I’m doing my fucking best. Fuck you.**

**Mick**

- 

_ Mickey, _

_ I’m sorry. It’s hard for me, knowing you’re in there but not knowing if you’re OK. I tried calling up but they wouldn’t tell me anything - just that you were in the SHU and you wouldn’t be out for a while. I came down there to visit, but they wouldn’t let me see you. I’m going out of my mind worrying about you, and I’m scared you’re going to do something stupid and end up doubling your sentence or something. _

_ I wasn’t going to tell you this until I had it figured out a little more, but if it stops you doing crazy shit in there then it’ll be worth it. I’ve got some money saved up and I’m going to try and find a lawyer to take your case. I know you took the plea deal, but I think we can prove that you were pressured into it. I’ve been doing loads of internet research and I don’t think they had enough to convict you. It was basically Sammi’s word against yours, right? I’ve been trying to persuade Debs to go on record saying that Sammi’s lying about the whole thing, but she freaks out every time I bring it up. I’ll keep trying, though. _

_ I really think we’ve got a shot of getting you out of there early, Mick. It’ll take a while, and it’ll cost a lot, but it’s better than just sitting around and praying they let you out after eight years instead of fifteen. So please, try to stay out of trouble. Hang out with the old guys and play chess or something. Don’t stab anyone. _

_ I miss you. Let me know when you’re allowed visitors again. _

_ Ian _

- 

**Ian,**

**Don’t waste your money on a fucking lawyer, dumbass. Your family needs that money. You need that money. All a lawyer’s gonna do is line his fucking pockets and tell you he can’t do shit. I’ll do the time. You told me you were gonna wait, so wait.**

**Mick**

-

_ Mickey, _

_ It’s my money. I can do what I want with it. I’m meeting with a lawyer on Tuesday. This letter probably won’t get to you before then, so if you get phone privileges back give me a call and I’ll let you know what he says. _

_ Stay safe. _

_ Ian _

-

_ Mickey, _

_ I didn’t hear back from you, so I figured I’d write again and tell you how things went with the lawyer.  _

_ Basically, he said you were right. Because you waived your right to appeal when you took the plea bargain, there’s nothing we can do. Not without additional evidence that you didn’t try and kill Sammi, which we can’t really get because… well, you know. _

_ I’m really sorry, Mick. I really thought we might have a shot. It looks like we’re in this for the long haul, though. I put more some money in your commissary. Please call me as soon as you’re allowed. _

_ Ian  _

- 

**Gallagher,**

**You’re off the hook. I’m guessing you only promised to wait for me because you figured the appeal thing would work out. It didn’t. I told you it wouldn’t. If that’s why you were sticking around, I’ll understand if you want to end this. No hard feelings.**

**Mickey**

-

_ Mick, _

_ Fuck you. I’ll wait as long as it takes. _

_ Call me. _

_ Ian _


	4. Three Years, Eleven Months

Sometimes Mickey wonders if this is the only way Ian will ever want him - when he’s out of reach. Let’s be honest, hard-to-get is a turn-on, and nothing’s harder to get than a guy behind bars.

This was how it started. Little Ian Gallagher with his disproportionately huge dick, trotting along behind Mickey with his big puppy eyes and trying to pretend he wasn’t in love. Mickey had spat in his face, insulted him, threatened him, refused to kiss him, vehemently denied that what they had was anything more than convenience. He’d beaten the shit out of Ian, left him curled up and bleeding on the ground, and Ian had still shown up at Mickey’s wedding, begging him not to go through with it.

But Mickey had gone through with it, because what else could he do? And that was the last straw for Ian, apparently. And then, like a stupid kid’s cartoon, things had gotten confused and suddenly it was Mickey who was chasing Ian, and Ian who was always running farther away. Then Mickey got locked up and lo and behold - there was Ian Gallagher again, with his big puppy eyes, pawing forlornly at the glass screen dividing them and promising to wait.

Sometimes Mickey wonders if Ian himself recognizes this pattern. It’s always a seesaw between them. Sometimes they meet at the fulcrum - perfectly balanced and perfectly in love. But before long the balance always shifts, and one of them is pulling away while the other gives chase.

Maybe Ian’s not the stupid one, though. Maybe Mickey is the stupid one. Because he knows how this will end - with him getting out of prison after however many years, and Ian sticking around for a little while before getting bored with his adoring, loyal ex-con boyfriend and moving on to someone new. But even knowing that, Mickey loves Ian, and he wouldn’t stop loving him even if he knew how. He loves him so much that he almost wants to draw out this prison sentence longer, to postpone the inevitable day when Ian loses interest in him again.

Mickey thinks about maybe doing something stupid - stabbing someone in front of the guards, or hell, maybe even stabbing a guard. But instead, he does something even stupider.

He tells Ian all of this.

It’s nearly four years into his sentence. Ian’s come to visit Mickey, all smiles, and for some reason Mickey decides to just put it all out there: how Ian only wants him when he can’t have him, and how Ian will wait for Mickey until he gets out, and then he’ll leave him again, like he always does.

Ian sits there and listens to all this, and the smile drops from his face and leaves behind an expression that’s hollow and devastated. He’s still wearing his firefighter uniform, the short sleeves tight around his biceps and the dark blue providing a beautiful contrast to his pale skin. He just started on the job a few weeks ago, and he was so fucking proud.

Now he’s sitting here, ashen-faced, while Mickey calmly tells him that they’re doomed. Mickey’s seen this look on Ian’s face before. He saw it the night of his wedding, when he told Ian that he was still going to go through with it, and Ian stared at him with a look of such utter betrayal.

When the buzzer announces the end of visitation, Mickey hangs up and calmly walks out. When he gets back to his cell, he pukes violently into the disgusting metal toilet in the corner. Then, when his cellmate gets back, Mickey bends him over and fucks him hard and carelessly, feeling completely hollow inside.

To his surprise, Ian still shows up again next week. He sits on the other side of the glass with this wounded expression, and Mickey considers just walking out again. But he’s not strong enough for that, so in the end he sighs and picks up the handset, holding it loosely to his ear.

“Marry me,” Ian says immediately, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Fuck off.”

“What do you want from me, Mick?” Ian demands, leaning forward, glaring through the glass. “I’m here every fucking week. I always pick up when you call. I’ve been waiting for you for _years_ , just like I promised…”

“Wow, look at Saint Gallagher, up on his fucking cross,” Mickey interrupts in a bored voice.

“I _love_ you,” Ian spits down the phone, in the kind of tone usually reserved for saying _I hate you_. “Why won’t you believe me?”

He seems so affronted, and Mickey can understand why. Here he is, sitting in prison with his ugly tattoos and his fifteen year sentence, and every week a hot fucking firefighter shows up to visit him - a guy who’s promised to wait for him, however long it takes. Mickey should just shut up and be grateful for it, but he’s given up his heart and soul to Ian before and his reward was getting unceremoniously dumped because caring too much is apparently a turn-off.

Mickey’s silence only serves to make Ian more agitated. He leans back to reach into the pocket of his pants and searches around for a bit until he finds what he’s looking for. He sets it down on his side of the booth: a simple gold band, scratched and dull - obviously second hand.

“Marry me, Mickey,” he says again, throwing it down like a challenge.

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Marriage don’t mean fuck all. I was married to Svetlana too, remember?”

“Well, then…” Ian leans back in his chair, his face the picture of frustration. “I fucking give up.”

Mickey quirks an eyebrow to convey his total lack of surprise.

“Not like that,” Ian adds hurriedly. “I mean, I don’t know how to convince you that this is real. That I’m not going to leave you again.”

“There ain’t no fuckin’ shortcut.” Mickey shrugs. “You can marry me, get my name tattooed on your ass, whatever. Doesn’t mean you’re gonna stick around. Doesn’t mean you ain’t gonna get bored of me.”

Ian looks like he’s been fucking gutted - like Mickey just shoved a hook up under his sternum and ripped out his heart and lungs and all his internal organs. He looks Mickey in the eye and he asks, quietly, “Are you bored of me, Mick?”

Mickey’s hard edges soften a little then. In the question, he can suddenly see Ian as he was in his teenage years - wearing his big heart on his sleeve, and just waiting for someone to come along and break it.

“No,” he admits.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of visitation. But they both linger, looking at each other across the divide, helpless to do otherwise.

“You’re wrong about me,” Ian says softly. “I’m gonna fucking prove you wrong.”

And against his better judgment, Mickey believes him.


	5. Four Years, Eight Months

It’s four days before Mickey finds out, because the Gallaghers are self-centered fucks and it doesn’t occur to them to get the message to him. Those four days include a visitation day, so Mickey sits around waiting to get called up, only it never happens. He asks if there’s anyone here to see him and the guards say no, and he wonders if maybe they’re just fucking with him. Because Ian never misses visitation, not without letting Mickey know in advance.

Then on the fourth day Mickey gives up on playing it cool and letting it go, and he calls Ian’s cell phone. Only Ian doesn’t pick up - Lip picks up instead.

“Hey, uh…” He sounds exhausted. “Shit, sorry, Mickey. Have you heard yet, or…?”

Which isn’t the most comforting thing to hear when the wrong person answers your boyfriend’s phone.

“I haven’t heard shit,” Mickey snaps, expressing his rising panic through anger. “All I know is Ian didn’t show up for visitation yesterday. The fuck’s going on?”

He’s picturing Ian rushing into a burning building, getting trapped behind a wall of flame, or crushed by burning rubble. He’s picturing Ian rushing to a ten-car pile-up on the highway and an engine blowing up, and Ian getting consumed by the explosion.

“Ian’s in the hospital.”

“Fuck.” Mickey pushes the heel of his hand against his forehead. “He gonna be OK?”

“We don’t… I mean, it’s not the regular hospital. It’s the mental hospital. And he’s not getting a proper assessment ‘til tomorrow so we don’t really know how he’s doing yet.”

Mickey doesn’t know if this is better or worse than Ian getting hurt at work. He’d been acting extra animated during his last few visits, talking a mile a minute and barely letting Mickey get a word in edgeways, and yeah, Mickey had been able to recognize the symptoms of a manic phase. But he’d assumed that Ian would just do what he always did - change up his meds until things calmed down.

“What did he do?” Mickey asks. “He steal another baby?”

“No, no cops this time,” Lip says, but he doesn’t sound happy.

Mickey leans his head against the wall, grits his teeth. “What ain’t you fucking telling me, Gallagher?”

There’s nothing but silence, at first. Then Lip says, “Look, you gotta understand that this isn’t about you. I know ‘cause you only ever see him in there you might think his life revolves around you, but he’s been dealing with a lot of other shit. Work shit and family shit, and this thing with his meds…”

“Fucking spit it out, Gallagher.”

Lip sighs. Even down the phone, he sounds fatigued. Finally he says, “Ian cut himself.”

This heavy feeling settles low in Mickey’s gut. There’s a faint ringing in his ears. He closes his eyes, swallows hard, trying not to let anything show on his face. Quietly, he asks, “Like, his wrists?”

“No, his leg. We think he was trying to, uh, sever the femoral artery. He only nicked it, but he lost a lot of blood, and obviously the doctors figured out what he was trying to do so… I dunno. He could be in the hospital for a while.” Lip is speaking in an even, matter-of-fact voice, but even over the phone he sounds strained.

Mickey’s suddenly fucking furious, with nowhere to put that anger, so he presses the phone tighter to his face and hisses, “How the _fuck_ could you let this happen? I thought you people looked out for each other?”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Lip volleys back. “You’d better not say shit like that to anyone else. You think this isn’t fucking tearing us up, that we nearly lost him?”

But Mickey could give a fuck about Lip Gallagher’s precious feelings. “Is someone watching him?” he demands. “Like, 24 hours a day fucking watching him? ‘Cause that place they had him in before was a fucking dump and I don’t trust those assholes to…”

“He’s not at the same place as before. He has health insurance through work. He’s at a better hospital this time. They know what they’re doing, Mickey.”

Mickey feels nauseated and dizzy. He wishes he could sit down, but the only place to sit is the floor and he can’t let people see him having a meltdown in here. So he just clenches his jaw and says, “I gotta talk to him. Go visit him and bring his phone and I’ll call you when you’re there…”

“Look, just calm down, OK?”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to calm down!” Mickey snarls down the phone. “My boyfriend nearly died and no one fucking told me and I can’t even fucking visit him, so don’t you fuckin’ tell me to…”

“You really think I’m gonna let you talk to him when you’re like this?”

That’s when Mickey loses it. The rage swallows up his brain, renders him stupid, and he’s slamming the phone into the wall over and over until the cheap plastic shatters and his fist is bloody, and then guards come running to restrain him and Mickey starts hitting them too. He ends up curled on the floor, batons beating out a tattoo on his chest and back and stomach. When he eventually goes limp, they drag him to the SHU and dump him on the cold floor of the cell, bruised and bleeding.

He stays there for three weeks. When he eventually gets out, his phone and visitation privileges have been suspended. It’s another two months before he finally speaks to Ian again.


	6. Six Years, Two Months

The kid was obviously eating candy or some shit on the ride over, because when he touches the glass he leaves these little sticky smears on it. Mickey raises a hand in greeting, feeling kind of awkward, but it’s worth it for the way Ian smiles at him over Yevgeny’s shoulder. He holds the phone up to the kid’s ear, and Mickey hears this snuffly mouth-breathing down his end.

“What’s up, kid?” he says. “You, uh, doing good in school?”

“Yuh-huh,” Yevgeny says. “We’re learning about dinothaurth.”

Yevgeny’s baby teeth are falling out, and his smile is all gummy at the front. Ian thinks the lisp is adorable, but Mickey would prefer it if his kid didn’t give the school bullies extra reasons to pick on him. That haircut is bad enough.

“Yeah?” Mickey doesn’t know how to talk to kids. “What dinosaurs you learning about?”

To his relief, that seems to be the right thing to say, because Yevgeny starts rattling off a list of all the dinosaurs he knows (including the mighty “thtegothauruth”). While the kid is babbling, Mickey looks at Ian, who is looking down at Yev with this big, dumb, super-proud smile on his face. Ian seems to think it’s important for Yev to spend a bit of time with Mickey, and Svetlana for some reason agrees (or, more likely, she saw an opportunity for free babysitting), so every few weeks Ian brings the kid along for visitation.

Mickey doesn’t really have much attachment to Yevgeny, but he has to admit that the whole dad thing looks good on Ian. He used to secretly love seeing Ian carrying Yev around when he was a baby, and he still gets that same little curl of lust at the flex of Ian’s muscles when he picks Yev up and lets him stand on his knees so he can talk to Mickey through the glass.

So, there are definite upsides to Ian bringing the kid along, but the downside is that Yevgeny tends to hog the phone. It turns out that he knows the names of a _lot_ of dinosaurs, and Mickey is just starting to get antsy and glance at the clock when Ian, thank god, gently takes hold of the phone and says, “Let me talk to Daddy for a bit.”

Mickey smirks. “Daddy, huh?” he says, as soon as Ian puts the phone to his ear. “Mmm. I could get used to you calling me that.” He notices the guy in the booth beside him glancing over, looking revolted, and flips him off with a sneer.

Ian’s ears have gone a little red, but he smiles. “You look good,” he says. “Glad they finally gave you a haircut.”

“Yeah.” Mickey reaches up to run a hand through his newly-shorn, slicked-back hair, deliberately flexing his bicep a little as he does so. “I was starting to look like a fucking chick. Not a good idea in here.” He doesn’t want to waste much time with small talk, though, not when they’ve got so little time left. “You doing OK? Work good, meds working, all that shit?”

Ian nods, his expression taking on that edge of tension that it always does when they don’t really talk about what happened last year, but instead talk around it. “My probation’s up, so they’re not breathing down my neck any more. The guys really had my back, convinced them to lift it a little early. Work’s good. Meds are working. All good.”

The mention of ‘the guys’ gets Mickey’s hackles up a bit. He knows that Ian goes to work every day surrounded by big, muscular, gay firefighters who save people for a living, and obviously Ian isn’t staying celibate. Mickey hates himself for asking, he does, but he has to ask. “You fucking anyone?”

Ian’s used to the question by now, at least. “Yeah,” he replies frankly, glancing over at Yevgeny, who has climbed off his lap and is now reading all of the signs in the visitation room out loud. "I’ve got a thing going with a couple of the guys at work. Not at the same time. Though I’m working on that.” He offers a tentative smile that Mickey doesn’t return.

“They know about me?” he presses.

“Of course.” Ian leans forward, looks Mickey straight in the eyes. “I talk about you at work a lot, you know? All the guys know I come here every weekend. They ask about you, how you’re doing and stuff.”

Mickey scoffs. “Right. Instead of ‘how’s the wife?’ it’s ‘how’s the jailbird boyfriend?’”

“Pretty much.” Ian rests the backs of his fingers against the dividing glass, and he gets all serious. “We’re over the hump, Mick. You’ll be out in a couple more years, and then you can come home. I’m…” He hesitates. “I’m looking into getting us a house. Like, buying one.”

Mickey eyes him carefully. Ian tends to get big, grandiose ideas into his head when he’s manic - ideas about changing careers, or moving to a different city, or even breaking some law to get himself thrown in here with Mickey. “A house, huh? White picket fence and shit?”

Ian seems to read Mickey’s mind, and puts on the little performance he does when he’s trying to convince people he’s sane - relaxing his shoulders and speaking slowly. “I’m serious. This isn’t, like, a sudden thing. I’ve been socking money away for a while, trying to get enough for a deposit. I think I can get us a two-bedroom place in the South Side. Nothing fancy, but not a real shit hole either.”

He’s so fucking sincere. Mickey can see it on Ian’s face, that he’s got this all planned out. He’s going to pick Mickey up from prison and drive him back to their house, and give him the tour, and fuck him in a big king-size bed, and make him pancakes in the morning. He’s still trying to prove that he’s serious about this, and that he’s not just going to drop Mickey again as soon as they’re reunited. This two-bedroom fantasy house in the South Side is just the bigger, more expensive version of the second-hand wedding ring that Ian presented him with a couple of years ago.

But a lot has happened since then, and they’re running out of time, and Mickey doesn’t feel like crushing Ian’s spirits right now. So he just offers a smirk and says, “If you get a place with a basement we could set up a meth lab.”

Ian rolls his eyes and laughs, and then the buzzer pierces the air and Mickey waves goodbye to Yevgeny and heads off for dinner. As soon as he turns away from them, the smile drops off his face and a feeling of exhaustion settles in, like someone just dumped a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Walking through the corridors, Mickey catches the eye of a couple of skinheads, who stare him down as they pass. Those fuckers have beef with him, for a whole mess of stupid reasons, and Mickey’s fighting his every instinct not to escalate it.

Two more years. Just two more years until he gets out. He can make it.


	7. Seven Years, Seven Months

They’re taking Mickey back to prison tomorrow. He’s still kind of sick, but they’ve taken the tubes and needles out of him and now they’re sure he’s not going to die he can spend the rest of his recovery time in the prison infirmary.

After trying for about the eighteenth time in the last hour to find a comfortable position to lie in on the hospital bed, Mickey gives up and settles back onto the pillows with a sigh. He reaches up absent-mindedly to touch the still-healing hole on the front of his shoulder where he was stabbed with that nasty-ass shiv. The prison doc had patched him up and turfed him back out after less than a day when it happened, but a week later Mickey started getting awful headaches and a stiff neck, and then a couple of days after that he fell over in the exercise yard and started having convulsions. Apparently he stopped breathing and nearly died. He doesn’t really remember.

Mickey knows that Ian has been trying to visit him. At one point, delirious with fever, he was sure that he heard Ian yelling out in the hall. Mickey feels kind of bad for worrying him, and even worse about the fact that the fight he got into probably killed his chances of getting on the next early release list, but it’s not exactly his fault. Those White Power freaks have been out to get him ever since they found out he was openly gay.

He’s just starting to drift off to sleep again when the door to his room opens and Ian walks in. Mickey just stares at him for a moment, not sure if he’s even real. It’s been more than seven years since he last saw Ian in a context outside of the prison visitation room - seven years of seeing Gallagher through that square of glass like he was some kind of regularly programmed TV show. It’s kind of bizarre to see him just… there. And maybe Ian feels the same, because he’s hanging back at the doorway, looking angry and upset.

“Damn,” Mickey says at last, his voice still hoarse. “They let you in?”

“I got them to grant me visitation. And I bribed the guard to let me come in alone. We’ve got fifteen minutes.” He folds his arms across his chest, his muscles straining his T-shirt a little. “For _fuck’s_ sake, Mick, what happened to staying out of trouble? You were so close to getting out, like another six months…”

“Gallagher, we ain’t been together properly for like seven years,” Mickey interrupts, sitting up and leaning forward. “Are you gonna yell at me or are you gonna fuck me?”

“Well _obviously_ I’m going to fuck you,” Ian concedes irritably. “But I was gonna yell at you first.”

“You can yell at me through the glass,” Mickey says, shuffling his ass over to the edge of the bed. “Stop wasting time.”

Ian raises his eyebrows and tips his head in a silent acquiescence to Mickey’s wisdom. Then he crosses the room in a heartbeat, grabs Mickey just as he hops off the bed, and kisses him hungrily. It’s the first time they’ve touched since… Jesus, since before Ian ran off with his mom after the arrest. Ian’s big, strong hands curve around Mickey’s back, pulling him in tight, then come up to cradle the back of his head while their tongues slide together.

“Oh my god,” Ian husks, breaking away briefly. “Your breath is fucking awful.” Apparently he doesn’t mind, though, because he plasters his body against Mickey’s front and resumes kissing him like Mickey’s mouth is an oasis pool in a desert.

“You got lube?” Mickey slurs.

“Of course I brought lube. Turn around.”

Ian doesn’t wait for Mickey to obey. He manhandles him, spins him around and shoves Mickey’s hips into the side of the hospital bed before grabbing a handful of his bare ass.

Mickey grins, bracing himself on the bed. “These fuckin’ hospital gowns are good for one thing, huh?”

Ian grunts in response, tries briefly to untangle the knot holding the hospital gown in place, then gives up with a growl of impatience and just pulls the two sides of it apart like a curtain and shoves his clothed dick against Mickey’s ass crack while he fumbles with his belt. Mickey swallows hard, so turned on that his legs are actually shaking, and lays his chest down on the bed, grabbing the edge of the mattress with one hand and shoving the hospital gown aside with the other so he can get a good grip on his cock.

While he does that, he feels Ian pull away a little, and hears the whisper of material against skin as he shoves his jeans down to his knees. Then Ian’s cock is back, hard and bare and leaking, riding up the crease of Mickey’s ass then sliding down between his legs to poke at his taint and the back of his balls.

“Lube,” Mickey snaps impatiently.

“I’m f’ckin’ workin’ on i',” Ian shoots back, the words muffled as he tears open the packet of lube with his teeth. Then his fingers are smearing cool gel over Mickey’s hot asshole, rubbing and pushing a little way inside. Mickey tosses his head impatiently.

“That’s fine, fuck, just _get in me_ already.”

Ian grabs his dick, holding it rigid, and presses slowly the head against Mickey’s hole, not pushing in just yet. “You good?” he asks, a little concern creeping into his voice. Ian knows that Mickey always tops in prison, and that it’s been a long time since this particular itch was scratched.

It’s going to hurt, of course it is, but Mickey cannot find a fuck to give. He rests his hot forehead against the cool sheets and says, “Just do it. I wanna fuckin’ feel it for a week, _ugh_ …” He screws his face up as Ian pulls his ass cheeks apart and shoves slowly inside, getting about halfway in with one good thrust. He groans, pauses, grabs the back of Mickey’s neck to hold him down on the bed, then slowly curls his hips inwards, pushing a bit more cock up Mickey’s ass.

Mickey is gasping, dizzy, like he’s been holding his breath for seven years and now he’s finally been granted relief. It hurts, it burns, and it's almost too much, but it’s Ian dick inside him and he has no idea how he survived without it for this long. The gentle downwards curve of it is riding his sweet spot maddeningly, and Ian’s pubic hair is tickling Mickey’s ass cheeks.

“Fuck,” Ian gasps, leaning over to rest his head on Mickey’s back for a moment. “ _Fuck_ , you’re hot inside. You still got a fever?”

“Are you seriously asking me about my fucking temperature right now?” Mickey snaps. "You wanna take a look at my chart too?"

“Right, sorry. Can I move, are you good?”

“I’m on a shitload of benzos, there’s nothing I can’t handle, just _fuck me_.”

He doesn’t know if Ian forgot to bring a rubber or just forgot to put one on in all the excitement, but either way Mickey’s getting treated to a bareback fuck and the slide of Ian’s naked cock is fucking delicious. Ian keeps one hand on the back of Mickey’s neck, grabs his hip with the other, and uses the leverage to hold Mickey in place while he slams inside over and over again.

Mickey bites his lip viciously, his fingers digging into the mattress as he fights to keep from making any noise. He can’t get a good rhythm on his cock and his arm is starting to fall asleep from the awkward angle, but it’s not going to matter much with the way Ian’s fucking him.

Ian slows down for a moment, grunting in frustration, and kicks rudely at the inside of Mickey’s bare ankle with his boot. “Spread your legs,” he says, the command sending a quiet thrill up Mickey’s spine as he obeys. It opens him up more, puts his body a little lower so Ian can fuck into him at a better angle, and soon he’s jolting a muffled moan out of Mickey on every other thrust.

Their bodies are already close, Ian fucking him with almost every inch of his cock, when the redhead folds over and presses his clothed chest against Mickey’s mostly naked back. He speeds up, frantic now, and pants, “I hope you’re fuckin’ close, Mick, ‘cause I’m gonna bust.”

It’s like Mickey’s been waiting for permission. A choked whimper escapes him as he speeds up the movement of his hand on his cock and then he’s coming, his thighs cramping and a dull rushing noise filling his head as he shoots, the waves of his orgasm colliding off-key with Ian’s suddenly rapid, irregular rhythm, and when Ian presses deep inside and stops moving Mickey knows that he’s coming.

They stay there for a little while, riding it out. Ian’s panting noisily, his breath gusting over the sweat on Mickey’s back, cooling it a little. He doesn’t pull out, even as Mickey runs out of strength and slumps limply on the bed, his legs hanging loosely off the side. Ian pushes his softening cock in and out slowly, an echo of their fucking, then buries it inside Mickey to the root like he’s trying to delay the moment when he’ll eventually slip out. There’s something weirdly comforting about it, but Mickey’s hipbones hurt where they’re jammed up against the bedframe, so after letting Ian indulge for a little while he starts squirming.

“Alright, get off me."

Ian complies, pulling his hips back and letting his cock slip out. A small amount of come slides out after it, wetting the back of Mickey’s thigh, and he grimaces at the sensation. He rolls over onto his back, and Ian picks up his legs like he’s an invalid and dumps them on the bed, swinging Mickey’s body around in the process so that he’s lying mostly lengthways.

Mickey stares idly up at the ceiling, catching his breath, and then lets his head roll over to look at Ian, who has his back turned and is grabbing some tissues to clean off his cock and hands. Mickey frowns at the pale curve of Ian’s ass, which has a scribble of black ink on the right cheek.

“That a new tattoo?” he asks.

Ian glances back at him, then cranes his head back to look down at his ass cheek. “Oh yeah. Not exactly new, but I guess you haven’t seen it before.” He takes a few steps backwards and frames the tattoo with his thumb and forefinger, giving Mickey a better look. He snorts with laughter when he sees what it is - **Mickey Milkovich** , in bold, curling letters.

“I can’t believe you got my fucking name tattooed on your ass.”

“Fair’s fair, right?” Ian says with a grin, turning around and tugging Mickey’s rumpled gown aside to stroke his fingers over the shitty **Ian Galager** tattoo on his pectoral.

“Milkovich has two Ls,” Mickey says.

“No it doesn’t,” Ian retorts confidently, pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt.

“Worth a try.”

There’s a discreet knock at the door. Ian glances around. “Two minute warning,” he explains.

“Damn.” Mickey can’t believe their small window of time is nearly up already. After this, who knows when he’ll next be able to touch Ian again - to see him without any glass in the way. He pushes that panicky thought aside and shuffles sideways on the bed, making room. “Get up here.”

Ian hops up obediently and lies down along Mickey’s side. He’s quiet for a little while, just resting his hand on Mickey’s stomach and brushing his nose against the side of Mickey’s head, breathing in the smell of him.

“Fuck, Mickey,” he sighs sadly. “When are we gonna be able to do this again?”

Mickey stares up the the ceiling, the weight of the question on his chest. “I dunno. Definitely won’t make the next round of releases. Maybe another couple of years, if I don’t fuck up again.”

“Maybe I can do something. Call a lawyer, see if we’ve got a case. You’re only in here because they didn’t give you a tetanus shot after you got stabbed.”

“Don’t waste your money. By the time you get through all that fuckin’ legal red tape they’ll be letting me out anyway.”

Ian strokes his thumb over Mickey’s sternum. “When you get out, I’m going to keep you in bed for a week.”

“Mmm,” Mickey hums, letting his eyes drift closed. “What about fucking me in every room of the house?”

“That’ll be the next week.”

Mickey chuckles, and then startles a little as the door to the room opens and the CO steps in. He’s a burly guy in his fifties, and he looks completely unphased by the sight of the two of them in bed together. “Time’s up,” he says shortly. “Move it.”

Ian sighs and climbs off the bed. Mickey thinks about getting up too, but the sex has sapped what was left of his strength, so he just lies there while Ian straightens himself out and runs a hand through his hair.

“Call me when you’re out of the infirmary,” he says, bracing his hands on the bed rail and looking down at Mickey with a fond smile. “I’ll be by for visitation next week.”

“Better be,” Mickey replies, his eyes drifting closed when Ian leans down and kisses his forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment. Then he walks away, and Mickey watches him go, feeling a great weight settle on his chest.

Ian stops at the door, glances back, and smiles a little sadly. Then he leaves, along with the guard, and Mickey is left alone on the soiled, sweat-soaked sheets.


	8. Day One

Ian’s car of course picked this week, of all weeks, to have its alternator give up the ghost and require a replacement, which means that Mandy has to give him a ride to the prison in her Jeep.

“Just like old times,” she says with a wry smile. She’s gained a little weight since she was a teenager, but she’s still pretty as ever and her short, blonde hair suits her, framing her face and making her look younger than she really is. “You and me, going to pick up Mick.”

“I remember.” Ian smiles at the recollection, the wind from the open window ruffling his hair as Mandy merges onto the highway and speeds up a little. “Jesus, it’s been a while, though.”

Ten years. Four months. Seventeen days. That’s how long Mickey’s been in prison. A whole decade of his life - the entirety of his twenties - spent behind bars. Mandy’s got an ex-husband, a new husband, two kids and a decent career as a tattoo artist, and Mickey’s just been… waiting. Stuck in limbo. And Ian’s been out here, waiting for him.

“You nervous?”

He startles a little at the question, looking over at her. “Huh?”

“You look kinda freaked out.”

Ian furrows his brow. “I’m happy he’s finally getting out. I sort of can’t believe I’m going to sleep in the same bed as him tonight. It’s surreal.”

Mandy hums in acknowledgment, but she keeps glancing over at Ian as they make their way to the prison. They’re just taking the turning onto the lonely road that leads to it when she asks, “Something on your mind?”

Shit. If she can tell something’s wrong, it must be obvious. Ian rests his head back against the seat and sighs heavily.

“You know I proposed to him once?”

“To Mick?” Mandy laughs. “What did he say?”

“Turned me down. He said that marriage doesn’t mean anything. That it wouldn’t stop me getting bored of him.”

“Bored?” She raises her eyebrow skeptically. “You’ve been waiting for him for ten fuckin’ years. I’m pretty sure if you were going to get bored, it would have happened by now.”

“See, this is what worries me,” Ian says in a rush, relieved to finally be able to get this off his chest. These thoughts have been preying on his mind for the past few days, nibbling away at his happiness and excitement with their venomous little teeth. “The waiting part? That was easy. Ten years I’ve been visiting him and talking to him on the phone, and I never once got bored. I could go out and fuck whoever I wanted, no strings attached, because I knew that Mick was out there and one day he’d come home and that would be it, for the rest of our lives.” The last five words weigh heavily on the air.

“So, what’s the problem?” Mandy presses, when Ian fails to continue the thought.

They’re driving past the prison now, the high fences rising up on the passenger side of the car. Ian stares at the chain links, the barbed wire, and the sprawling buildings beyond the fence.

“What if he was right about me?” he asks quietly.

Mandy slows to a stop outside the front gate, puts the Jeep in park.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Ian winces, and looks down at his clasped hands for a while, eventually lifting his head to look at Mandy, anguished. “What if I can’t handle it, having him back? What if I get bored of him, or I get fucking… suffocated, or something. I haven’t been in a relationship for ten years, not really. One visit a week, phone calls… that’s not a relationship. That’s easy. Once he gets out I’ve got to see him every day. I’ve got to… fit him into my life, somehow, and I don’t know if there’s room for him, Mandy.”

He’s babbling now, breathing rapidly, on the verge of panic attack which is _absurd_ because this should be the happiest day of his life, and if he’s freaking out instead of celebrating is that some kind of sign that he’s not ready? Has Mickey waited for ten years in prison just to get out and discover that Ian’s not a good guy, that he’s the same selfish piece of shit he always was...

“Do you love Mickey?”

“Of course,” Ian says reflexively. Then he looks over at Mandy, who is wearing the no-nonsense expression that she usually reserves for her kids. “What? Why? That’s not…”

“You bought a house for him. You visited him every week, for ten years. You offered to marry him. You made me tattoo his name on your ass.” Mandy punctuates that last point by giving Ian a playful shove. She looks annoyed, but not really worried. “You love Mickey. And Mickey loves you.” She looks over his shoulder, smiles, and then lifts her chin in a gesture. “You got this, Ian.”

Ian turns to look in the same direction as Mandy. There’s a little cart, like a golf cart, making its way down the long drive from the prison. The driver is wearing the familiar blue uniform of a prison C.O. but the passenger…

As if on autopilot, Ian opens his door and steps out of the car. He walks to the hood and leans back against it, watching the cart approach. It’s nearly summer, but it was winter when Mickey went in so he’s wearing his big coat and the soft grey sweater that Ian always loved underneath it. As the cart gets closer Ian sees that Mickey is grinning, and it hits him right in his chest. He brings up his hand to cover his mouth, taken off guard by the tears pricking his eyes.

There’s a bit of a wait while the gate rolls slowly open, and then Mickey hops off the cart, casually flips off the C.O. and then turns around to salute the prison itself with both middle fingers, before spinning back to face Ian with that huge grin on his face.

“Are you crying?” he calls out, picking up the pace as Ian stands up off the hood, takes a step towards him. Then he’s right there, saying, “You fucking pussy, Gallagher, c’mere...” and Ian is grabbing him and burying his face in Mickey’s shoulder and sobbing openly as Mickey’s strong fingers grip his shoulder tight, then come up to stroke the back of Ian’s head.

Ian is horribly embarrassed, but he can’t seem to stop crying for long enough to give Mickey a kiss hello, so he just holds onto him and lets his tears and snot soak into the fabric of Mickey’s coat. He holds him for a long time, and Mickey holds on too, stroking the back of Ian’s head and quietly shushing him.

“Don’t I get a hug too, assface?” Mandy interrupts, and though he can’t see her Ian can tell that she’s smiling and a little choked up too. “It’s my fucking car you’re getting a ride in.”

“This piece o’ shit?” Mickey retorts, letting go of Ian and patting his cheek gently, then moving past him to stand in front of Mandy. “I dunno if it’s even worth a hug.”

“Fucker.” Mandy goes to punch him but Mickey just laughs and pulls her into an embrace that’s half hug, half headlock. Mandy visited him a few times a year while he was behind bars, and was the only member of Mickey’s family to do so.

While they’re greeting one another Ian manages to get himself under control, wiping his sleeve over his face to dry it and taking a few deep breaths. He must still look wrecked, though, because Mickey’s expression softens a little when he turns back.

“There’s a welcome home party for you at the Alibi tonight,” Ian says quickly, before Mickey can say anything to make him start crying again. “Everyone’s gonna be there. Iggy made you a banner. Well, his kids did most of the work.”

Mickey whistles. “Shit, yeah, got a bunch of nieces and nephews to meet. Think I’ll be a bad influence?” he asks Mandy.

“On _my_ kids?” She scoffs. “They’ll probably be a bad influence on you.”

-

Later, Ian and Mickey lie in bed together with sweat drying on their skin - Mickey on his back, and Ian lying between his legs, his head resting on Mickey’s chest. Mickey is holding the set of keys that Ian gave him - just a simple keyring, a front door key, and a back door key - and looking at them idly as he dangles them from one finger and turns them over and over with a soft _clink_ … _clink_ … _clink_.

“You like the house?” Ian asks.

Mickey makes a show of looking round the room. “No bars on the windows,” he responds thoughtfully. “I can go out whenever I want. I can take a shit in private. Yeah, this is alright.”

“Plus, I’m here.”

“Mm. You’re here.”

Mickey’s heartbeat is slow and strong. Ian reaches up and idly traces his fingers over the ugly, blotchy, misspelled tattoo on Mickey’s chest, and smooths his thumb over his own name.

“I want to marry you, Mickey.”

Mickey’s just quiet for a moment, so Ian angles his head up to gauge his reaction and finds Mickey gazing down at him with a nakedly affectionate expression. He lifts his tattooed hand and then rests it on Ian’s head, carding his fingers through the soft, coppery locks of his hair.

“I could be down for that,” Mickey says after a while. “One day.”

Ian smiles and closes his eyes, indulging in the gentle massage of Mickey’s fingers on his scalp.

“There’s no rush, right?” Mickey continues.

Ian lets his hand slip down to cup the curve of Mickey’s ribcage. He’s beginning to drift off to sleep.

“No, Mick. No rush.”


End file.
